Someday babe, we’ve got to meet.

BeauregardCemetary

Dear Lord … where were we? I’ve been a bit sidetracked
by work and life and the colors blue and black

as opposed to white and gold. Dresses. Women
wearing them – tiny chicken legs on high heels

cradling brown bottles of beer like newborns,
high as kites, smoking cigarettes and leaving

black rings on the butts and rims of anything
glass in the vicinity. One asks if I

like pie.  I just wink and smirk. Of course I do.
Who the fuck doesn’t like pie? Apple, cherry…

pie is delicious. Ice cream too, right? Love it.
The chickens at the bar cluck and cackle. Oh.

They weren’t talking about desserts, were they?
Oops. I feel stupid. The girls feel like dancing,

apparently, because that’s what they do. Oh,
by the way, that song playing? It’s about Crack

and how to make it. Because that’s good to know
if you ever have a bunch of Coke and want

to make some easy money off idiots.
Music’s the same thing. Take a bunch of words, add

a beat, make the bass drop and boom: top 40
stations will play it night and day. Remember

the golden fiddle The Devil laid on the
ground at Johnny’s feet? It’s been replaced by a

24 karat auto-tune computer.
Also, will someone please get Keith Richards a

broom so he can shake it at all the kids on
his lawn? Black Sabbath a joke? Metallica,

too? Christ almighty, man – Tom Waits wrote about
your urine and how it glows blue in the dark.

What’s the joke about? Is it about music?
I guess I shouldn’t be too hard on you, though.

The Rolling Stones are responsible for some
of the greatest songs in history, like the

one that goes, “My love is strong and you’re so sweet.
You make me hard. You make me weak.” How does the

chorus go to that one? Oh yeah, “It’s more than
just a dree-eem. I need some time. We make a

beautiful team.” Now that’s a fucking joke, Keith.
and only one person knows who it’s for. She

barely knows me. I know her, kinda. She has
a cassette tape recorder and I own a

typewriter. Two clean machines. Old school, I guess.
Like me – just not cut out for 2015.

It’s like that movie Midnight in Paris, with
Owen Wilson. When I write I talk to ghosts.

They said Robert Johnson learned how to play his
guitar after Ike Zimmerman took him to

the cemetery out on Dickerson Road
in Beauregard, Mississippi to talk to

the Haints. Been there, done that. Took pictures, but no
selfies, because one more time, I hate this place

and I don’t understand when things changed so much.
I’m old, but am I … old? Am I dying? Yep.

We’re all dying, right now, even as you read
this. So? Do you know how many dead people

are underneath us right now? Where do you think
their energies go? Their spirits? Their souls? Call

it what you like, it has to go somewhere, right?
Heaven knows where. Down below, maybe. Or up

above. I suppose it’s up to us how to
live in the meantime. Spacehog … what a great band,

right? I’m rambling now, so I’ll close with a quote.
“Get busy living or get busy dying.”

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